


Kinky Kilts

by Fire_Bear



Series: Kilts [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, F/M, Hand Jobs, Kilts, Kinky Kilts, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Sexy Sporrans, Smut, University, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 00:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5723311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Bear/pseuds/Fire_Bear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis finds himself drawn to Andrew, wishing he had made a move before he was in a committed relationship. But when they eventually fall into bed together, does it actually mean an end to his pining?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kinky Kilts

**Author's Note:**

> I. Hate. This. So. Much. Mainly cause it took forever to write. And I had to fix my storyline in the middle of writing a few times because I recalled that this AU has a thing called continuity and I was basically screwing it up. I will explain what I mean by that at the end.
> 
> The French was worked out with Google Translate because I suck. I think it's mostly okay because it's all right, usually, with the short bits and pieces...

He was wearing a kilt the first time he saw him.

Francis had only just settled in at the student halls. At the end of September he'd be starting his university course in the University of Strathclyde, studying joint Hospitality & Tourism and Business Analysis & Technology. Once he'd graduated he would go back to France and open up his own restaurant, of that he was sure. In fact, the only reason he was in this wet country was to see the world a bit before he threw himself into his passion.

And so, once he had unpacked and met his new room-mate (a Spaniard called Antonio), he had decided to take a stroll through the City Centre. He wanted to find out where all the best shops were and where he could buy the best ingredients for cooking in the small flat. When he had been on his way out, Antonio had been in the middle of a phone call so he had decided not to interrupt him and left with a little wave.

Soon, he had found himself at the corner of George Square and, since he hadn't stopped there in the preceding days, he crossed the road to look at the statues and find out who exactly Glasgow had decided to commemorate. There was also, of course, the large lions which protected the names of the fallen of the two World Wars and Francis stopped for a moment once he reached them. Then he had turned and headed for the tall pillar in the middle of the Square.

That was when he had spotted him. It was hard not to: not a lot of people were out and about in a kilt. His messy auburn hair and his sideburns drew the eye, too. Bright green eyes stared up at the pillar, thick eyebrows above them detracting from his appearance only slightly. His jaw was square and and his smile wide. A Scottish football shirt shielded his chest from view (unfortunately). The kilt, however, meant that Francis could stare at his muscled, hairy legs. He wasn't so sure a pair of trainers were supposed to be worn with a kilt and his nose wrinkled a little before he forced himself to look away from them.

Normally, if Francis spotted such an attractive person, he would stroll up and introduce himself. Unfortunately, the man wasn't alone: a child with messy blond hair and the same green eyes clung to the man's hand. The boy's expression was neutral as the man spoke to him. As Francis watched, the kid rolled his eyes, clearly exasperated at his companion.

Was the man his father? Did he have a wife? Francis's hesitation cost him an introduction as the boy tugged on the man's hand and they moved off. It would be creepy to follow them, Francis decided. Besides, it wasn't that much of a loss, considering all the attractive people he would meet over the next few years.

* * *

 

It was a surprise for Francis the second time he saw him.

Antonio had dragged him to the third level of the Students' Union, introducing him to a German he had met at the Freshers' Fair. Gilbert had pale hair and pale skin and a loud personality. He had claimed a pool table and was busy challenging random people to games. When the other two arrived, he challenged Francis and, despite his averseness of getting his good clothes dirty by leaning over the dusty tables, Francis accepted.

“How long will we be doing this?” Francis asked halfway through their game. Gilbert was busy lining up a shot, concentrating hard since Francis was winning, and didn't answer.

“Are you wanting to go upstairs, Francis?” Antonio said instead.

“Well, oui,” Francis replied. “After all, this is hardly a Ball, is it? We are meant to be here for the Freshers' Ball, non?”

“Ja- Yeah,” said Gilbert as he straightened, eyes still on the table. “But, hey, there are balls here. Am I right? Huh? Huh?” He chuckled to himself and nudged Francis repeatedly. The Frenchman merely rolled his eyes.

And that was when he caught sight of a familiar head of hair. Blinking, he did a double-take and confirmed what he had seen. The man from the Square was striding through the room, his kilt swinging as he walked up to the bar. A group of friends surrounded him but there was no sign of the little boy.

Francis leapt on that fact like a graceful panther catching its prey.

“Tonio, take over from me, s'il te plaît.” Shoving the cue into Antonio's hands, he hurried off, ignoring Gilbert's protests and Antonio's bewildered questions. Keeping the man in his sights, he dodged around drunken students and pool tables till he caught up with him at the bar. There, the man slouched on the counter, leaning heavily on an elbow. His friends had left him to buy all the drinks by the look of it: a quick survey of the room confirmed that they had claimed a different pool table and were setting up for a game.

As surreptitiously as possible, Francis sidled up next to him. Leaning on the bar, he watched the man flag down the bartender. Up close, Francis could see how truly handsome the man was. Glancing down, he could also see those legs, powerful and attractive. Francis waited till the man had placed his order to speak up.

“Bonsoir,” he said.

The man looked around. “Oh. Hi.”

“You seem to have gone all out tonight.” Francis gestured at the kilt. “You make it look good.”

Raising an eyebrow, the man accepted a drink. “Aye?”

“Oui.” Holding out his hand, Francis introduced himself. “Francis Bonnefoy.”

“Andrew Kirkland,” was the reply.

“Well, Monsieur Kirkland, it is an honour to meet you.”

Snorting into his glass, Andrew shook his head before taking a sip. “Same. So, what's a Frenchman like you doing in a place like this?”

“I heard there was a ball – I was not aware that this meant pool.”

With a burst of laughter, Andrew nodded. “Well, that's kinda why I'm here, too.” He glanced over at his friends. “I should get over there... Hey, if ye want, we can have a tournament with ye. Before ye go upstairs, I mean.”

“Oh! I would be delighted to. I shall fetch my friends.”

They parted ways with smiles and Francis found himself in front of Gilbert and Antonio before he knew it. He hadn't been paying attention to where he was going, thoroughly distracted by the thought of getting to speak with such a handsome fellow. When he blinked at them rather dazedly, it was clear they had been watching him.

“Friend of yours?” asked Gilbert, looking confused.

“Oui. He invited us over for a tournament, if you would like to?”

“Why not?” Antonio said with a shrug. “It will be fun to meet new people.”

Gathering their things, they made their way over, Gilbert shoving at Antonio and protesting against Antonio's apparent win. Francis rolled his eyes at them, though he couldn't wipe the grin from his face. Andrew intrigued him and he was finally going to learn more about him. Maybe he could even flirt with him a little and see his reaction: that would help with future endeavours.

Unfortunately for Francis, he never managed to test the waters that night. As they made their way towards the group of Scots, Francis spotted Andrew standing a little ways from them, talking to a young woman with long, brown hair tied back with a flower hair-band. He leaned against the wall, appearing confident and happy as he kept close to her. The woman giggled at something he said and he grinned widely.

Not wanting to interfere, Francis approached one of his friends and introduced himself, determined not to let the obvious flirting get to him. After all, Andrew's friends were all rather attractive and one was quite openly eyeing Francis up. He needn't give up after just one got away.

* * *

 

The next time Francis sees Andrew in a kilt is when they attend the Christmas All-Nighter.

Between the Freshers' Ball and the end of the semester, Francis and Andrew had become good friends. Francis had not bothered to interrupt the budding romance between Andrew and the girl (Holly, was her name) but he often bumped into Andrew in the Union on Tuesdays when the drinks were all a £1. It seemed that Andrew had a penchant for getting drunk: Francis had a penchant for being dragged to the pool tables by a bored Gilbert and a happy-go-lucky Antonio.

It had been odd, seeing Andrew without a kilt the first time, but Francis had quickly gotten used to the faded jeans and ratty t-shirts. And Andrew had quickly gotten used to Francis's flirtatious joking, laughing it off with ease. Sometimes he even hit Francis's back as he laughed and Francis could feel his strength. His mind would, unbidden, conjure up fantasies of Andrew fucking him while he held him up with little effort.

Being in different departments, they didn't see each other much unless cheap alcohol was involved. Whilst Francis's lectures and seminars were held almost entirely at one end of the campus, Andrew's was at the other and he didn't even live in the halls so Francis couldn't bump into him. Apparently, his father had paid for a flat as he was proud of his eldest for getting into university and also, according to the Scot, so he could help his parents during the summer holidays by looking after his half-brother, Arthur.

Frustrated that he couldn't pursue Andrew despite discovering him to be absolutely delightful, Francis threw himself into a few short-lived relationships, each partner boring him within a few weeks. However, he had just gotten together with a young woman called Pawla and so was accompanying her to the All-Nighter. It would have almost been a double date if not for Gilbert and Antonio and the girls' friends. Apparently Andrew's friends had decided to miss out on the night as the four men found themselves alone with a multitude of women.

When Francis entered the third level of the Union with his arm around Pawla, sure he would find his friends there, they had acquired one of the tables closest to the door. Gilbert and Antonio appeared to be in the middle of a game whilst Holly was chattering to her and Pawla's friends as they waited. Andrew stood nearby and Francis immediately noticed the kilt. He had to drag his gaze away from those enticing legs. Remembering Pawla he purred a seductive comment into her ear. She giggled and gave him a quick peck on the cheek before declaring she would buy the drinks.

Letting her go, Francis made his way to Andrew who looked up at him, rather absently. Francis raised his eyebrows. “Are you all right, Andy?”

“Ah, yeah,” he replied, a lot quieter than usual.

“Are you sure? You do not sound it.”

“I'm _fine_ , Fran. Forget it.”

“If you say so...”

Afterwards, the night had gone much the same as normal: plenty of drinking, laughing, chatting – and plenty of sidelong glances at Andrew from Francis. At least, it did right up until Andrew took Holly aside to speak to her. Francis forced himself to absorb himself in Pawla at that moment so he didn't need to see what happened. It usually meant there would be a bout of kissing. However, he was quite distracted from his own kisses when Andrew and Holly's discussion turned into a heated argument.

“What is it?!” Holly demanded, loudly. Their group paused in what they were doing and looked over, frowning in confusion. “What's the problem?!”

“It's...” began Andrew before noticing all the stares. “Look, would you keep your voice dow-?”

“I will not! You can't tell me what to do! Answer me! What's so bad about me that you have to dump me _now_.”

Francis held his breath, eyes wide. Beside him, Pawla gasped, lifting her hand to cover her mouth. Everyone around them stilled and others from nearby tables turned to watch. Andrew hung his head, obviously trying not to catch anyone's eye.

“It's not you, Hol. It's just...”

“Just what?!”

Andrew hesitated. Then, with a sigh, he ran his hand through his hair and looked up. “It was fun, to begin with. But I just... I don't feel it, ye know? And I don't wanna tie ye down if there's-”

“You selfish bastard!” Holly yelled. Andrew flinched. “Is this 'cause I invited you to come over during the holidays? Are you just chickening-?”

“I told ye before,” snapped Andrew, fire suddenly in his eyes. “I'm going to London fer the holidays – that's got nothing to do with ye.”

“But you can just... I dunno... Go down for New Year. Right? And-And if... if you don't want to, you don't need to. I can come to your flat-”

“ _No_ , Holly. I'm sorry, I really am but I don't wanna be with ye any more. Understand?” Andrew added, rather harshly.

Holly stared at him, her expression a mix of fury and desperation. Then, whatever she was looking for in his face evading her, she turned and rushed out of the door. Her friends hurried after her, shooting Andrew glares. Beside him, Pawla clung to Francis, eyes wide.

“That was horrible,” Pawla whispered.

“Indeed it was,” Francis answered, trying to hold in his joy.

* * *

 

Francis saw Andrew in a kilt one last time before they became intimate for the first time, just over a year later.

After the breakup, Francis had decided not to ask Andrew on a date – at least, not for a few weeks. In the meantime, he had had some fun with Pawla, reluctant to toss her aside so soon after Holly's departure from their group of friends. So he had waited until the Spring Break instead. Pawla was understandably upset and Francis apologised profusely. Then he had scoured the campus for Andrew.

He was heartbroken to find that Andrew was already with a different woman.

And so a cycle had started. Andrew would get a girlfriend, Francis would be upset and look for romance elsewhere. Francis would finally find someone he felt could fill the hole – and Andrew would break up with his girlfriend. Hoping Andrew felt somewhat attracted to him, Francis would break up with his partner a few weeks later and try to find Andrew to ask him on a date. That would be how he would discover Andrew's new relationship status.

It was a blessing – or so Francis thought – that he hadn't told Andrew how he felt about him. He wasn't sure he could stand the pitying looks from him if he remained his friend, not when he had a girl on his arm.

Then, in the final days of their second year, just before the summer holidays, one of the clubs decided to host a charity ceilidh. It was going to be the last time Andrew would be able to join Francis and his friends for fun before he left for Canada to study for the next year. Francis would be going home the next day, heading to his parents bakery in Paris. He was looking forward to being able to bake – the oven had broken in his flat and he'd been bereft for a few weeks now.

All in all, the occasion seemed more sombre than celebratory. Gilbert quickly remedied this by purchasing shots for all of them and practically forcing them down their throats. Soon, all of them were tipsy, giggling as they leaned against the pool table they had claimed. Antonio was the worst off: he had been gathering his courage to ask out a lovely Belgian girl and had drunk far more than them. When Antonio began to drool onto the table, Francis sighed.

“I better take him home, oui?”

“Aye, I'll help ye,” Andrew said, already lifting one of Antonio's arms over his shoulders.

“Was?!” exclaimed Gilbert, almost dropping his beer as he slammed it on one of the small counters on the wall. “You can't go home now! We've barely gotten started. We've not even been to the ceilidh yet!”

“We'll come back,” Andrew assured him.

Gilbert narrowed his eyes at them. “You better not leave me on my own.”

“We won't, idiot,” Francis sighed. “Just wait here and we'll be back before you know it.”

Huffing, Gilbert shrugged his acquiescence. After adjusting Antonio between them, they began to half-carry, half-drag him to the lift. The ensuing journey took what seemed like hours to complete. Francis was immensely glad that he and Antonio were still living on the campus, even if their building was several streets over.

Eventually, they pulled him into their flat and dropped the drunk Spaniard onto his bed. Antonio merely grunted and murmured something in Spanish. Without making a sound (except for the shushing and the slight thuds as they walked into things), Francis and Andrew were soon closing the door on him. Andrew spun around to leave and his kilt twirled around him. Francis thought of pretty princesses and giggled, bending over in an effort to keep quiet.

“What's so funny?” Andrew demanded, though he was grinning when Francis glanced up.

“Nothing,” Francis said, smiling back. He stepped closer, eyeing his body, his legs in particular. “But you have really nice legs. You need to wear that kilt more often.”

Andrew paused, blinking at Francis. “Huh?”

Francis stared at him, thinking of all the things they had been through over the past year or so. He thought of the pain of seeing him with women – and only women. And he thought of the year that was to come, never seeing him.

That was when he decided to throw caution to the wind, grateful that, for once, by some miracle, both of them were single at the same time.

Stepping even closer, Francis raised his hands to cup Andrew's face. Then he paused, waiting for Andrew's reaction. The Scot merely stared, wide-eyed. Slowly, Francis gained the courage to rub his thumbs just under those beautiful eyes. For a few moments, he thought Andrew was going to pull away. Then his eyes flickered shut and his lips parted slightly. Francis could see his blush, hear his heavy breathing.

He waited a few seconds more before leaning in, eyes closing, to press his lips against Andrew's. At first, it was chaste, both of them staying still. Then Andrew started to move closer to Francis, making the kiss a little more passionate as he did so. Francis made an approving noise before he flicked his tongue out. He could hear Andrew gasp slightly as he parted his lips but Francis quickly dove in, running his tongue along Andrew's teeth. When he licked along the length of Andrew's tongue, it seemed he'd broken whatever was holding Andrew's passion at bay.

Without warning, Francis found himself pushed against the wall, his tongue pushed back into his own mouth. He wasn't too upset, though, as Andrew's tongue filling his own mouth had him groaning, his hands falling to Andrew's shoulders where he clung tightly. A large hand grabbed at his hip while the other tugged at his hair.

It was everything Francis had ever dreamed of: heated, passionate, his heart beating fast. But he needed more and he wasn't sure if Andrew was too drunk to know what he was doing or even if he was ready for such a step. So, gently, he pushed at him till he'd managed to put a little distance between them. “We should-” He was cut off by another kiss. When he managed to separate them again, he tried to continue. “-talk-” was all he managed before another kiss was placed on his lips, this a little more forceful, Andrew biting at his bottom lip.

Just as Francis registered how hard he was, Andrew gripped his other hip and pulled him up. Francis gasped against his lips as the movement forced them apart slightly. Andrew didn't let him say anything more, kissing him again and pinning him to the wall. Instinctively, Francis wrapped his legs around Andrew's waist, tightening his grip as Andrew sucked on his lip.

 _Et puis merde!_ Francis decided, draping his arms around Andrew's neck. They could talk later. Right now, he _needed_ Andrew.

At that point, Andrew stopped his kissing, taking the time to catch his breath. Francis gazed at him: Andrew's eyes had darkened, his pupils wide; his face was flushed. He looked good enough to eat. Maybe Andrew would let him.

Before Francis could suggest going to the bed, Andrew kissed him again. However, he seemed to have had the same idea as he adjusted his grip and carried Francis to his room. He even held Francis up with one arm as he opened the door, still enthusiastically kissing him. Not caring for the noise, Andrew slammed the door shut before he threw Francis onto his bed. Francis bounced, eyes wide as he watched Andrew crawling on top of him.

“Andy,” he murmured, reaching up with a finger to stroke at his cheekbone. His gaze ran along Andrew's body, along the white shirt and landed on the kilt which was hanging down, shielding his crotch from view. “Keep the kilt on,” he whispered as he looked Andrew in the eye once again. “But take off your underwear-”

“I'm not wearing any,” Andrew murmured, his eyes roaming across Francis's black shirt and trousers.

Francis froze, though he was sure one particular part of him stood up a little straighter. “Quoi?”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “True Scotsman. Look, forget it. Ye need to...” Doubt clouded his expression as Andrew glanced at Francis's bedside cabinet.

Wondering what was wrong, Francis thought through any doubts Andrew could have at this point in the evening. He knew Andrew had had sex at some point – Holly had once openly spoken about it when drunk – so it wasn't that he was a virgin. However, with his relationships all being with girls...

“I'll do it, mon cher,” Francis told him, smiling seductively up at him. “Don't you worry.”

He sat up and opened the drawer, taking out the handily placed single condom and the bottle of lube. Setting them down on the bed, he reached up to the hesitating Andrew and pulled him down for a kiss, this one slower and gentler, designed to put Andrew at ease.

It worked. Andrew relaxed into it, kissing back just as fervently as before. Balancing better, Andrew ran his hands down Francis's chest and Francis leaned back, exposing his neck to his lover. Andrew noticed and his lips slipped down Francis's chin and jaw before they kissed at his proffered skin. Buttons came undone as Francis closed his eyes, groaning as Andrew sucked at his neck.

Wasting no time, Andrew tugged the shirt from Francis who helped him get it off completely. It was tossed away, a part of Francis mourning how crumpled it would be later. Andrew raised himself up to stare at Francis's body. A look of awe was quickly replaced with lust and, before Francis could say anything, Andrew leaned down to kiss at Francis's collarbone. Francis sighed happily, his smile wide as he let Andrew kiss along his lean body.

At his nipples, Andrew paused. Francis imagined that he was marvelling at the differences between the bodies he was used to and the one in front of him now. His breath across his sensitive skin caused Francis's cock to harden further. He kept his eyes closed, waiting for Andrew to become more confident and comfortable in his actions.

There wasn't long to wait – a few seconds later, Andrew took his nipple into his mouth, his tongue licking around the nub. As he sucked on it, Francis groaned and arched his back in an attempt to get closer to Andrew's mouth. A quick nip made him whine and pull away, panting, to look up at Andrew who was staring down at him with a curious expression.

“Huh,” said Andrew with a cheeky grin. “I wasn't sure if you'd like that.”

Panting, Francis nodded. “Oui. Now. Enlève ta chemise.” To help Andrew understand what he meant, he tugged at the bottom of his shirt. Andrew was very obliging and immediately lifted it over his head and threw it away. With him down to just his kilt (ignoring the socks and shoes), Francis allowed himself to trail his fingers over Andrew's muscles. All that time building things or whatever it was he did in the engineering department had made him very fit and delectable. So Francis leaned up and licked from the middle of his chest up to his collarbone. Andrew made a surprised noise as Francis began to nibble on his skin.

After his indulgent action, Francis propped himself up on his elbows and raised an eyebrow. Andrew stared into his eyes, seeming a little lost, before he got the message. Placing his hands on Francis's shoulders, he pushed Francis back down who let himself fall back on the sheets. He watched as Andrew ran his hands down Francis's body until he reached the trousers. There he fumbled for a few moments, urgently trying to undo the belt and zip. Finally, he was done and Francis raised his lower body to let Andrew pull the garment off. It flew off somewhere in the room.

Again, Andrew paused. However, Francis expected this and reached under Andrew's kilt. He let his fingers trail along the outside of Andrew's leg, relishing in his sharp intake of breath. When he reached Andrew's hip, he ran his fingers across until his fingers brushed against Andrew's member. Andrew stiffened above him, wide-eyed, so Francis paused and waited till Andrew looked into his eyes.

“Well?” he asked, trailing his fingers up and down Andrew's length, the tips of them barely touching.

Another pause before Andrew breathed out again and relaxed. Francis took that as his signal and grasped Andrew's dick, firm but gentle. Andrew's breath hissed out from him. Slowly, Francis began to stroke him, letting Andrew get used to the feeling. The Scot gasped and whined but held back his voice as much as possible. Though he was worried about Andrew holding back, Francis was utterly turned on by each noise that escaped him, erection straining against his briefs. He waited until Andrew was twitching his hips forward slightly before letting go of his partner.

Gasping, Andrew grabbed Francis's wrist as Francis pulled away. “No-” he began to protest before spotting Francis's other hand; the Frenchman had picked up the bottle of lube in the same instant he had let go. They stared at each other for a moment, Francis smiling fondly. Finally, Andrew let Francis go and settled back on his knees.

Continuing with his preparations, Francis silently opened the bottle. Making sure Andrew was watching for future reference, Francis poured some lube onto his fingers and rubbed them together till the substance had warmed up. Once he deemed them ready, he pushed himself up until he could kneel in front of Andrew, the Scot watching his every movement carefully. Wriggling out of his underwear, he kicked them away and looked back at Andrew – he was staring at Francis's cock, almost risen fully, thick and throbbing with need.

Flashing Andrew a seductive smirk, Francis reached behind himself. With a single finger, he prodded at his hole, circling it until he pushed in. Involuntarily, he gasped, his eyes fluttering closed. Francis could sense Andrew move slightly and he wondered if he was worried about him. The Frenchman's heart seemed to swell in delight.

With painstaking patience, Francis opened himself up, pushing a second finger in to scissor his walls apart before a third was added. He opened his eyes when he had all three in to see what Andrew was up to. The Scot was panting, chest heaving, as he watched. His kilt had been lifted so his dick was visible and a hand was slowly stroking it, though his eyes were fixed on Francis.

Reaching out, Francis knocked Andrew's hand out of the way. Surprised, Andrew silently watched him and only made a sound when Francis gripped him. “Jesus,” he breathed, tensing up. He soon relaxed as Francis slowly stroked him in time to the pace he was working himself open. “Oh, God,” Andrew continued, apparently relaxed enough now to make more noise. Francis revelled in it.

Deciding he was ready, Francis crooked his fingers just so to prod against his prostate. He cried out and arched backwards, squeezing Andrew's member. The man gasped, doubling over as he tried to stop himself from collapsing from the sensation. He raised a questioning eyebrow when he finally looked up.

“I'm ready,” Francis murmured as he removed his fingers from his hole.

“Oh.”

“Before we start...” Francis reached for the condom and ripped it open with his teeth, something he himself found sexy. Judging by the way Andrew gulped as he watched, he found it a turn on, too. Moving quicker now, Francis rolled the protection onto Andrew's rather large erection. He wondered if it would hurt him when Andrew pushed in and then decided he didn't much care. Pressure built within him at the thought and he hurried to warm up the lube and spread it along Andrew's length.

At long last, both of them were ready and Francis collapsed back on the bed. He spread his legs and smiled encouragingly at Andrew who was hesitating once more. The Scot frowned for a moment, staring at Francis's body as if he was confused as to why he wasn't a woman. Francis was beginning to get a sinking feeling when Andrew suddenly shook his head slightly and moved closer. He lifted his kilt out of the way again and pulled Francis's legs wide.

“Okay. Right,” Francis heard Andrew mutter and, once more, he took initiative. Reaching out, the more experienced of the two gripped Andrew and guided him to his entrance. He let go when he felt Andrew pressing against him and he sighed happily at the thought of getting filled.

Gripping Francis's legs tightly, Andrew pressed in. He moved at a slow pace, ever cautious. Francis cried out, arching his back as the pain of being stretched by something almost too large mingled with the pleasure of having something inside him again.

Andrew froze, though, and Francis scrabbled for Andrew's arms. Finding them, he gripped them tightly. “Do not stop!” he gasped. “Ne t'arrête pas!” he shouted a second later when Andrew showed no signs of moving.

Although he seemed to be reluctant to do so, Andrew obeyed, pushing in further until he was finally, blessedly, fully in. Francis gave another cry when he stopped, disappointed that there would be no more stretching. Panting, he managed to calm down as neither of them moved. When he was finally able to open his eyes, he found Andrew watching him, his tight grip on his legs unyielding.

“You can move now,” Francis told him.

Grunting, Andrew shook his head. “I don't think I can,” he croaked. Francis felt him trembling even as he kept as still as possible. “I'm not sure I'll be able to stop,” the Scot admitted. “God, you're so _tight_. It's amazing.”

“You don't need to,” Francis told him, too blissful to think beyond wanting to make Andrew happy and to feel the man pounding into him. “Just... Fuck me as hard and fast and for as long as you want, mon chéri.”

Francis could feel Andrew's length throb within him as the man himself groaned. Grinning, Francis wrapped his arms loosely around Andrew's neck and waited for him to move. When he did, Andrew did so slowly, pulling out, almost all the way until only the tip was inside. Then, just as slowly, he pushed back in. Francis moaned and pulled Andrew closer to kiss his jaw.

Carefully, Andrew moved at a steady pace as Francis kissed along his chin and down his throat. Just as he began to yearn for Andrew to move faster, Andrew gave a grunt and did as he wished. Francis decided this was a good omen if he could predict what he wanted without needing to speak. In thanks, Francis bit down on Andrew's collarbone, sucking on it in an effort to make as large a mark as possible – he wanted all the women at the university to know Andrew was his.

The kilt brushed against him with each thrust and Francis moaned at the feeling, his mouth still attached to Andrew. It seemed that the vibrations against his skin caused Andrew just as much pleasure as Francis's body did because he suddenly pulled the blond close as he thrust in, the sudden action causing Francis some pain as he was stretched just that little wider.

“Putain, plus!” Francis cried, digging his nails into Andrew's shoulders.

“What?” Andrew panted, staring down at Francis as he paused.

“More!” snapped Francis. “S'il te plaît, more! J'ai bes-” He broke off as Andrew finally listened to his pleas and thrust in as hard and fast as he could. Francis cried out, clinging tightly to him.

For the next few minutes, they fell into a rhythm as Andrew thrust into Francis harder and harder, building up his speed as much as possible, grunting and panting. Francis thrust back against him, nails scratching against Andrew's back. All Francis was truly aware of was the pain and the pleasure, both mingling to force the heat and pressure further down. His toes curled as he got closer and closer to release.

“Fuck,” Andrew said, breaking his silence. “Fuck, I'm close-”

Pulling Andrew closer to him, Francis whispered into his ear, “Come, mon amour.”

With a cry, Andrew obeyed, his cock throbbing pleasantly within Francis. He kept going, though, faster and sloppier than ever. “Francis!” he shouted and the name on his lips made the Frenchman come, hard, crying out Andrew's name, too.

When they stilled, Francis rubbed gently at Andrew's back, soothing the pain from the scratches. Andrew's face was masked by the shadows as he remained bent over Francis. Then he abruptly pulled out, tugged off the condom, tied it off and tossed it aside. Francis blinked up at him, wondering why he was acting so quickly. Was he going to leave? That just wouldn't do. Pouting, he reached for Andrew's wrist and pulled him down to lie beside him.

“I'm tired,” Francis murmured, happily. “Let us go to sleep.” With that being said, he cuddled up to Andrew, throwing a leg and an arm over his body. Beneath him, Andrew tensed and Francis worried. After a while, though, Andrew grunted and relaxed. Francis smiled and planted a quick kiss on his gloriously sweaty chest.

* * *

 

Francis woke to movement. Andrew had gently pushed him to the side. Grunting in displeasure, Francis reluctantly opened his eyes to watch Andrew hurriedly tugging on his shirt. That was odd, Francis thought – there was no reason for Andrew to hurry, as far as he was aware.

“Chéri...?” he croaked, pushing himself up on an elbow.

Andrew froze. Then he quickly grabbed his shoes. “Morning,” he grunted.

“Where are you going? Do you not want a breakfast cooked by moi?”

Ready to leave, Andrew straightened and sighed. “I'm sorry, Francis,” he sighed, turning to the lounging Frenchman. He looked pained, his face scrunched up as though he was bracing himself. “This was a mistake.”

The statement felt like a knife to Francis's heart. His breath stilled and he stared up at Andrew. “W-What-?”

“Look,” Andrew interjected, turning away. “I have to go.”

And, with that, he had disappeared, the door swinging closed in his wake. Francis stared at it, horrified. Had Andrew really just left him the morning after? What happened to the romantic streak he had seen in the Scot with all of his girlfriends? He had known that it was Andrew's first time with a man but did that really disgust him? Or had he been much more drunk than Francis had thought he was?

Tears building in his eyes, Francis threw himself face down on the bed. Had he taken advantage of Andrew? He felt horrible now. Should he go after him? Call him?

As he buried his face in his pillow, his indecision weighing on him, his tears began to fall.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, let me explain a few things.
> 
> Firstly, I realised that I mentioned in the first of this series that Andrew was 'thirty-something' according to Arthur. Only to realise that meant he left home when Artie was six and Arthur was meant to remember growing up with his brother so... That was an insult. Totally an insult. Arthur's actually, like, 10/11/whatever in this.
> 
> I decided the best way for them to meet was in university. But then, surely, his dad would have heard the name 'Francis' before. So let me explain Andrew's behaviour (because I'm not writing any more of this AU - I only wanted to write this to show that Francis and Andrew have a similar... kink... about the kilts. Though they both like it a lot more than Arthur and Alfred).
> 
> Andrew thinks he's straight. But he's actually bisexual and just hasn't come to terms with it, if you will. He knows he's attracted to Francis but he's worried about that and fights it. Mainly because he knows what his dad thinks of gay people and he's maybe a mite scared of what he'll say. So he never mentions Francis by name and Patrick's too busy having an affair to care.
> 
> In case you're wondering: Francis and Andrew have a very on-off romantic relationship till nearer their wedding and after Andrew and Arthur have stopped talking to Patrick. The two of them don't speak while Andrew's in Canada and Francis finds comfort with his parents and some girl called Lisa who's in Paris for a holiday and stays for a month. When they both come back, Antonio and Gilbert are unaware of what happened and they invite Andrew to hang out with them. So Andrew and Francis start talking and get together towards the end of the year - just in time for Francis moving back to France. They have a massive row about it, eventually agree to remain in contact but split up. They don't do very well at keeping their hands off each other when they visit each other. After a couple of years, Francis's envisioned business isn't taking off so he moves back to Scotland and...
> 
> P.S. Andrew was taking a Product Design course.
> 
> P.P.S Holly was Scottish. Pawla was Polish (but not Fem!Poland).


End file.
